Tis Strange
by Lorata
Summary: Some stories aren't just universal, they're multiversal. The tale of King Lear, from eleven different worlds. Written for Night on Fic Mountain 2014. (AUs include: corporate, superheroes, rock band, zombies, space, high school, dragons, age of sail, noir, tarot, fix-it)


CORPORATE

Lear's CEO portrait, hanging on the wall at the far end of the room, cast its solemn stare down at the trustees as they sat on either side of the long mahogany table. The man in the painting was some thirty years younger than the one who stood in person on the other side; Lear at fifty had brown hair instead of white and a lot more of it, but that didn't matter. Even at eighty, Lear wasn't aged, just _distinguished_. He could stay on at his company for another twenty years if he wanted to and do just fine. It just didn't feel the same anymore.

Coming in to work no longer energized him; he didn't wake up before his morning alarm, filled to bursting with new ideas, new takeover schemes, new bids to drive profits through the roof. Nowadays his mind wandered in his afternoon meetings; he found himself having to close the blinds on his office's floor-to-ceiling windows or he'd only stare out at the cityscape until his secretary cleared his throat. Kent was a fixture of Lear Enterprises, hired back when Lear took his father's home business and turned it into a global player. The intern, Edmund, joked he must have come free with the office rental space years ago.

Even now, as Edmund finished passing out the coffee and slipped back out through the door, Lear thought longingly of the mini-golf set in his private lounge, of the wide couch where he'd taken to snatching a few minutes of sleep here and there during the day. Yes, retirement sounded better and better. Today he would divide the company between his daughters, giving controlling interest to them and their respective subsidiaries, and tomorrow he'd book a full-day spa treatment and start enjoying the perks of being CEO in name without the stress of actually doing the work.

Goneril, his oldest girl, ran an investment firm that made Forbes' top 30 companies run by people under 30; Regan, not to be outdone, started a media conglomerate that ventured into tech industries Lear had never heard of, which he assumed made them extremely relevant. Cordelia, his favourite, chaired half a dozen non-profits and NGOs, ranging from animal rights to ending human trafficking. All three of them had done him proud, but Cordelia impressed him the most. She'd made it in the corporate world without losing her femininity, and call Lear old-fashioned but he liked to see that in a woman of business. Goneril and Regan both kept their hair cropped short and wore tailored suits with edges so crisp they could cut steel; Cordelia wore long skirts and flowing blouses and let her hair fall loose around her shoulders.

Two investors from Europe had come to meet with Lear about partnering with Cordelia's non-profits, one from France and the other from ... somewhere that sounded like France but wasn't, and in an hour it wouldn't be Lear's job to remember anyway. She had promise, his youngest, and Lear hoped to give the majority of the shares to her. He looked forward to her pitch even more than Regan and Goneril's.

Goneril took the floor first, then Regan, and Lear sat bathed in the glow of the projector and basking in the light of their praise. Both acknowledged him as their hero, their inspiration, and their presentations were an impressive resume of their accomplishments that led into their plans for the company's future. By the end of each, Lear awarded them one-third of controlling interest, then turned to Cordelia and held out the laser pointer.

She didn't take it, and Lear stood with his arm outstretched and the metal cylinder in his hand as the clock above the door ticked off the seconds. Lear cleared his throat, but when he took a closer look, she hadn't even brought any portfolios or supplementary materials with her. "Cordelia?" Lear asked, frowning. "Did you forget about your presentation?"

"No," Cordelia said, thin lines between her eyebrows. "I'm not going to make one. I don't want a major share in the company."

Murmurs ran around the table; the investors immediately took out their mobile devices and started tapping away, probably contacting their bosses to call the whole thing off. Goneril and Regan exchanged arch glances. Lear swallowed an initial burst of rage, running through the meditation exercises from that yoga CD he bought at the airport when stuck overnight at Charles De Gaulle. It didn't help.

"Is there any reason why?" Lear asked, managing to keep his voice calm, at least.

Cordelia pressed her lips together. "I'm happy where I am," she said. "I like running non-profits. It's what I believe in and it's where I want to be. I don't need to be in charge and I don't want to be."

"Is my company not good enough for you?" Lear asked, and several of the trustees sucked in hard breaths and leaned surreptitiously away. "You didn't complain about it all those years when I funded those trips to build orphanages in Cambodia or schoolhouses in Guatemala or whatever else you did in college."

"No," Cordelia said again, mouth turned down. "No, I - if you want to hear about how wonderful the company is, ask Goneril and Regan to make another presentation. They're better at corporate speech than I am. But Dad, in six months they'll take your name off the building and put theirs on it. I just want things to stay the way they've always been."

Lear threw the laser pointer against the wall, where it bounced off the smooth oak panelling and rolled across the lush carpet. "Then see how you'll like working non-profits when you don't have the company's discretionary funds to pay your pro bono lawyers and keep the lights on in your offices! How will your starving kids in Africa get their shoes without sponsorship from Lear Enterprises partners? How will your groups of volunteers fly to South America to build orphanages without the Learjet?"

"Sir-" Kent spoke up from the door. "I think you should reconsider. How will it look to the stockholders if Lear Enterprises severs ties with so many major charities -"

"I didn't ask your opinion," Lear snapped. "I've made up my mind. Have the legal department draw up the paperwork immediately. I'm giving half my shares to Goneril and the other half to Regan. I want Cordelia's company assets liquidated and her removed from the payroll, from the list of stockholders, everything!"

"Sir," Kent said again, his voice a warning.

"Do it now!" Lear demanded. The trustees sat in awkward silence, and how must this look? How many of them were pocket-texting their brokers, planning to sell their shares before news broke and the company's stock plummeted? He had to take command now, and hold it.

Kent took a breath, held it, then let it out slowly. "I'm sorry,' he said in a low voice. "I can't do this. It's not just bad business practice, it's a disservice to your daughter when she's only ever done good for you and this company."

"You are not my superior," Lear said through gritted teeth. "You don't get to say no when your CEO gives you an order!"

"My conscience is a higher authority than even you, sir," Kent said, and had the gall to sound sad, as though this was wounding _him_. "I've been with you since the beginning. I'm begging you, take a few days to reconsider. Have the board reconvene on Friday."

Lear shook his head. "I don't want to do this. You have been with me from the beginning, since my father's day, but in my father's day we had one rundown building and we used newspaper to stuff the cracks in the windows. If we kept up his business practices we'd still be there. Either you're with me or you're emptying out your desk."

Kent swallowed, but then he bowed - actually bowed, like they were in some kind of period drama. "I'll get a box from the supply closet, then. I'm sorry sir, it's been a pleasure."

Stunned silent - no one ever made him follow through on his threats, they always backed off and did what he wanted - Lear only watched as Kent turned to Cordelia and held out a hand for her to shake. "I wish you luck, my dear," Kent said to her, and Cordelia favoured him with a small smile. "Your heart has always been in the right place, and the business world needs people like you." He straightened and sent sharp looks to Goneril and Regan. "As for you two, I hope you get exactly what you deserve."

He left, and Lear turned his back and refused to watch him go. "I hope you're happy," Lear said to Cordelia. "A good man no longer has a job because of you. Does that satisfy your anti-corporate spirit?"

Spots of colour bloomed on Cordelia's cheeks, but she said nothing. Lear spun and pointed a finger at the pair of investors, sitting silently at the middle of the table. "Well?" he asked, swallowing the bitter taste on his tongue. "Are you still eager to dump your money into these charities, knowing what kind of ungrateful chair they have, that there will be no more corporate backing? Are you still willing to saddle yourself with a selfish little girl and a bunch of do-good organizations about to go bankrupt?"

The first investor coughed. "I'll have to speak with the rest of my team," he said cautiously, which in the business world may as well be the squeal of tires as a car pulls into reverse. "I'm not sure they'll commit to something like this when it's now such a risky venture."

"I'm in," said the Frenchman, whatever his name was. He owned some kind of tech startup that planned on partnering with Cordelia and providing iPads to blind children in Ghana or something like that. "I think she's got guts, and I like to see that in a business partner. I hope we can continue to do business with Lear Enterprises, but I'm going to invest either way."

"Fine," Lear said. He didn't even care anymore. Let the young kids dance through the daisies all the way from here to the collection agencies. He had his company; he had two daughters who cared about him and the future of the empire he'd fought so hard to build. "I hope you're happy together. The rest of you, wrap up; I'll be in my office."

He swept out the door and tried to slam it behind him, but the automatic hydraulics in the hinges slowed it down so it closed with a whisper. Somehow that just made everything so much worse.

* * *

SUPERHEROES/SUPERPOWERS

"And you know, it just, it really sucks sometimes, being the only non-powered member of a family of superheroes," Edmund said to the camera, slumping back in his desk chair and staring at the little green light. "I mean, I build stuff, awesome stuff, can any of them build stuff? No! Edgar has that whole super-strength thing, but he could barely put together a Lego castle when we were kids. And that's _with_ the instructions. Meanwhile Dad can fly and see through walls or whatever but he just, he has no idea how to run a business. People come to us for the stupidest stuff. We could be ruling the world right now, okay, and they're returning stolen wallets to cats or saving little old ladies from trees."

Edmund ran a hand through his hair. "I'll show them, though. Things are going to change around here, you'll see, and then we'll actually do something. Being a superhero will _mean_ something. And it won't matter that I don't have powers because it's not how you're born, it's what you do with it."

He leaned forward and hit the 'stop' button on his recording program. A few hours of editing and he'd toss it online tomorrow for all of his four viewers. Whatever. Once he got rid of Edgar and became Dad's new sidekick, it wouldn't matter if one or a million people watched his videos. Vlogging was just something to pass the time until everything worked out, and no better time to start than now.

The League suffered a huge upset when Lear kicked his youngest daughter out after some dumb spat over honour, go figure. Good riddance to her anyway; half the heroes in the League drove Edmund crazy with all that duty and justice shit, but Cordelia with her power to see the good in people, what the hell was that about? That wasn't even a power, that was just hippie tea and scented candles. Edmund deserved a place in the League more than her, and with her spot open he knew exactly who would take it.

Dad's footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Edmund closed his video editing software and opened up the footage he'd recorded earlier out at a construction site on Seventh. "Edmund, did you hear the news about the League? It's crazy! I never would've thought Lear and Cordelia would part ways like that. I hope she doesn't become a supervillain; the sweet ones are always the worst when they turn. That's the last thing we need right now, I tell you!"

"Oh hey Dad," Edmund said, and closed the video window as conspicuously as he could, even moving to block the screen with his head.

Dad frowned right on cue, proof that being born with powers must take up a fair bit of brain space. "What's that? What were you watching?"

"Nothing," Edmund said, opening his eyes wide. "It's - just a dumb video of a monkey. You hate monkeys."

"That's not a monkey," Dad said, and yeah, a million points for deduction there. "It looked like someone breaking into a bank. Show me!"

It was, sort of. The bank was under construction, the outer facade finished but half the floors still being wired, and the robber was a life-sized robotic replica of Edgar that Edmund made in his lab last week. Edmund pulled a face and used all the acting skills he'd perfected while not learning how to fly or shapeshift or anything else that people with powers did, pretending to be reluctant as he pulled up the window and hit play.

Having a front-row seat to Dad watching what looked like Edgar sneaking into a bank and walking out with bagfuls of money was totally worth all the nights staying up until four in the morning, eyes burning and muscles twitching from the ever-growing pile of energy drinks.

"What is this?" Dad demanded finally. "That - Edgar? What is he doing? Why would he rob a bank?"

"I dunno, you'd think his allowance would be enough," Edmund said dryly. "It might not be him, Dad. It might just be ... another guy with the exact same superpowers who looks exactly like him."

"Edmund, it's very sweet of you to want to protect your brother," Dad said, and man, Edmund should've kept the camera rolling because that would've been a perfect time to give it an amused look. "But I know what I'm seeing. How dare he! Did you know this was happening?"

Edmund gnawed on his lip and frowned, and Dad stared at him with wide eyes. Not for the first time, Edmund gave a silent prayer of thanks that his mom had been the one with the mind-reading powers and not the other way around. "I read his blog," Edmund said, playing at choosing his words carefully. "He has been posting a lot of angry poems and stuff about the darkness inside him. And I saw some black fabric in his closet. I think he might be making himself a new suit."

Dad staggered back a step and ran a hand down his face. "My son - my oldest son, becoming a supervillain! After everything I've done for him, he's robbing banks and writing _poetry_ and - and who knows what else! I need to stop this right now, isn't that where it all goes wrong? The hero ignores the signs and thinks everything will be fine, and then the next thing you know they've built a death ray and kidnapped someone's girlfriend and threatened to set an orphanage on fire! I won't have it!"

"I'm sure there's some explanation, Dad," Edmund said, imitating Edgar's best earnest voice. This really could not get easier. "Why don't you wait until you've talked to him? When he comes back, just ask him where he's been, I'm sure he'll be able to tell you."

Dad ran his hands through his thinning hair. "You're right, you're right. Oh Edmund! If Edgar turns supervillain I don't know what I'll do! I'd rather he were born non-powered like you and found himself some kind of civilian job than come to this!"

Edmund's smile thinned despite his best efforts, but Dad's eyes fixed on the computer screen so it didn't matter. "The horror," he said in a flat voice. "Dad, seriously, calm down. I'll find Edgar and talk to him and everything will make sense, I'm sure."

"All right." Dad shook his head, then dropped one hand on Edmund's head and ruffled his hair like he was six years old. "At least you're here, that's some comfort. What a day! Cordelia gone, Kent gone, and now my own son is dabbling in villainy. Find him, talk to him, bring me some good news, please! I still can't get over Kent being removed from the League, he was one of the founders!"

Dad left, still muttering to himself, and Edmund turned back to the computer and flicked on the camera. "So," he said, giving the lens a sharp grin. "You'll never believe what happened. I'll tell you later but believe me -" His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Edmund checked the screen. "Oh hey that's my brother, hang on." He winked at the camera and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hey, bro," he said, imitating Edgar's douche-speak and rolling his eyes theatrically. "Did you talk with Dad recently?"

"Yeah, I talked with him last night, why?" Even over the phone, Edgar oozed sincerity. Amazing, really, how he managed to make Edmund wish it were possible to punch a voice.

"Well, I don't know what you said or did, but you really pissed him off." Edmund glanced at the screen, still frozen on the image of Edgar's mechanical double fleeing the scene. "You might wanna lie low for a few days. You've got the key to my place downtown, right? Maybe hide out there until I can figure out what's going on. I'll call you."

"What, he's seriously that mad?" Edgar clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Wow, okay, yeah, thanks for the tip, bro, I appreciate it. Let me know when it's safe to come home, or if there's anything I can do, or what."

"Will do." Edmund hung up, put the phone back in his pocket, then grinned at the camera again. "Yeah guys, seriously, things are heating up around here. I can't wait to see how it all goes down."

* * *

ROCK BAND

Another Friday night, another party, another Saturday morning up early, cleaning up the mess made by men who should know better. Goneril blew a hard breath out her nose and swept the mess of empty bottles and half-crumpled red plastic cups into a black trash bag. ("But Goneril!" she heard Cordelia say in her head, shocked and big-eyed and scandalized, "What about the environment! You should separate out the recycling!")

Cordelia liked to snipe at Goneril for chucking out the trash without bothering to do the cans and bottles separately, but she wasn't here cleaning up, now was she. Normally she'd be with Dad, making him tea and toast and bringing him cool clothes for his forehead like it wasn't his own damned fault he was hungover. Oh yes, Cordelia was the understanding daughter, the good daughter, the one who loved him beyond all reason, and Goneril should be more supportive.

Well, ha ha now, Dad could wipe up his own vomit this time, because he'd thrown that tantrum and refused to see Cordelia after she wouldn't feature his band on her blog tour. For once Goneril almost (_almost_) respected her sister, because sucking up to Dad and his idiotic over-the-hill singing group on its what, fifth comeback tour had not been a picnic, but long term benefits beat momentary satisfaction. Now Goneril and Regan were official managers and Cordelia was back to reviewing terrible indie groups that played in underground parking lots on instruments made of recycled hobo trash.

Though speaking of manager, Goneril was all but done with this. Dad was too old to be getting trashed with his buddies, hitting on groupies young enough to be his granddaughters and promising them a career in music if they only went back to his place to talk about it. All the PR tours she and Regan sat through were exhausting; no one wanted Dad to headline anymore because of all the shenanigans that would follow, and as the years went on convincing them otherwise became more of a chore.

If Goneril owned a venue, she wouldn't want to book a headliner who might show up four hours late, if he showed up at all, or who would cancel the whole thing if he didn't get all the goodies in his dressing room exactly how he asked. Goneril would kill herself talking to an event planner, bend over backwards trying to make sure all of Dad's ridiculous demands would be met, and then off he'd go anyway, reeking of tequila and tottering onto the stage halfway through the set.

The worst part was, Dad's contract with his latest record label was about to expire, and Goneril had to negotiate a new one. How was she supposed to do that when the heads had been giving her the runaround, making excuses and slipping meetings, and everyone knew that meant a 'no' was brewing. Not that Dad cared. He'd only blame everyone else, because he was Lear, the King of Rock, and that made him immune to criticism.

Goneril knotted the trash bag and dragged it to the kitchen, not bothering to step over the unconscious bodies slowly growing to awakeness on the floor. They trashed her house (because Dad was too cheap to rent out his own place for his parties), they could deal getting stepped on.

Ozzie, her intern, stormed into the kitchen when Goneril was loading the dishwasher. "His Majesty is awake," he snarled, reaching into the freezer and grabbing a pack of frozen peas. Goneril whirled, and he grimaced and gestured to the purpling skin beneath his eye as he held the vegetables to his face. "He tried to make me go get him coffee and I said I'm your intern, not his, make his do it, and he went crazy and hit me."

Goneril dropped a plate; it crashed against the floor and shattered, but you know what, who cared. She'd call a maid service to come by later; this was enough. "He actually hit you?"

Ozzie shrugged. "And his roadie, what's his name, that asshole who just makes fun of everybody, he was there and he just laughed the whole time. Plus some other guy, I don't know, but he was acting like your dad's best friend. They all ganged up so I left." He scowled. "I'll go back in there if you want me to -"

"No, I don't," Goneril said sharply. "You're absolutely right, you're working for me, not him, and I'm not going to have him ordering you around or laying a hand on you." She slammed the dishwasher closed and turned it to the longest setting, hoping the noise gave at least some of the party guests headaches. "I've had it, Ozzie, that's it. I'm going to talk to him."

Ozzie trotted after her, but Goneril held up a hand. "You stay here, start telling people to get out."

"Whatcha gonna do, boss?" Ozzie asked.

Goneril gave him a grim smile. "What I should have done a long time ago. The only thing bringing in the money right now is the name, not him. We could get a new main singer, someone younger and hotter and not a piping hot mess. Regan and I could probably run the band ourselves without a lead vocalist at all at this point. I'm tired of him. He signed over the rights to us last week after that big love-fest, so I'm going to do it."

Ozzie whistled, low and impressed. "You're kicking him out of the band?"

"I'm kicking him out of the band," Goneril said. "Text Regan, let her know what's happening. Wish me luck."

Ozzie saluted, and Goneril headed upstairs, determination growing with each step. Yes, it was Dad's band. Yes, she and Regan had everything because of what he'd done. But she was an adult now, and Dad a washed-up has-been who still acted like he was in his prime. The time for a change could not come any sooner.

* * *

POST-APOCALYPSE

Lear stared up at the sky, the clouds thick and dark with incoming rain. "At least that should keep them back a bit," he said, tightening one hand at the gun on his belt. His fingers had started shaking these past few years as age crept up on him, but they always calmed when he curled them around the handle of a weapon. The day that stopped working, though, now that really would be the apocalypse.

Gloucester's safehouse loomed in front of them, the walls bristling with sentinels and weapons, and the knots in Lear's chest eased a little. Travelling for a full day across open land, even with a hundred men for protection, was always nerve-racking. You never knew when something might go wrong. Whatever had possessed Goneril to kick him out and force him to make the trek in daylight, Lear had no idea, but they'd made it, at least.

Lear's arm itched, but he ignored it, imagining cooling salves and ocean water leaching the sensation away. It was fine. Not even a bite, just a scratch really, and all he had to do was clean it when he got inside and it wouldn't matter. He'd lived this long and soon he'd retire, once he fixed this fuss with his daughters. There'd been one attack on the journey over, but his men killed it before it did more than lunge. It wasn't a bite. Everything was _fine_.

"Looks like they're at home," said one of his men, motioning to the 'all is well' flag fluttering from one of the posterns. "We should be able to get something to eat, thank god."

"Wait, what's that?" asked another, pointing. Lear followed the gesture, frowning, then sucked in a gasp.

Someone had chained a man to a post outside the main gates. They'd done a number on him first, too; one eye had swollen shut, and a long gash ran down one arm, flaking with dried blood. "Mother of God," muttered one of the men. "They're using him as bait so they can shoot any that come close."

"Wait," said the first again. "Isn't that Caius?"

Lear picked up speed, though he couldn't run like he used to, and yes it was. Caius, the man who'd come to Lear the other day and joined him as a messenger. He'd proved his loyalty very quickly by warning Lear about a pack roving the edge of the perimeter, likely saving many lives. He was no common criminal.

"Caius!" Lear dropped to his knees, and he ran his hands over the chains but the padlock hung secure even when he rattled it. "What happened?"

Caius blinked at him and licked his lips slowly, dried white flecks at the corner of his mouth. Lear called for water, and one of the men came and tipped a few mouthfuls while Caius swallowed, eyes glassy.

"Your daughter and her husband put me out here," he said, voice coming out thick and exhausted. "I'd fought with one of your oldest girl's men. It's fine, I think the weather has been keeping them back. They can smell the rain, and I think this storm's going to be bad."

Caius looked old enough to have been born pre-Rising, and anger bloomed in Lear's chest that anyone - let alone his daughters, who should know better! - would treat him like this after everything he must have seen. "We'll get this straightened out," Lear vowed. "I'll leave some of my men to watch you until I can get someone to find a key."

Lear beckoned to his captains. "Let's find Regan," he said, gritting his teeth. "I want to know what's going on here."

Except they wouldn't come see him. Regan and her husband said they were tired, they were sick, that they couldn't bother to come out, and a strange, stirring anger rose up inside Lear. He wanted - to lunge, to tear, to sink his teeth and shake until they listened. "I'll break down the door if I have to," he threatened, eyes burning with rage, and finally Regan came out to meet him.

She apologized for her sickness and told her men to bring Caius in from outside, but as soon as Lear asked, his daughter's demeanour slipped from polite courtesy to outright coolness. "He was rude," Regan said, flicking her fingers. "I thought he should show some respect, that's all."

"If one of my men is rude, you leave him to me and I will deal with him," Lear snapped.

Regan's eyes narrowed. "Really? Because whenever you and your men are around, all that happens is they raid the stores and steal all the good weapons and take half the supplies for themselves. And you, Dad, are getting old."

"My men and I are the only reason you have stores in the first place!" Lear's hands started to tremble again, but he couldn't very well grab his gun in front of his daughter, and so he clasped his fingers tight behind his back. The itch in his arm increased. "I think you and your sister are forgetting a few things. Just because I put you in charge doesn't mean you're the ones who built these safehouses! You're not the reason these people are safe!"

"You're the reason why it's not safe for anyone else to travel," Goneril said from behind him, sweeping in and joining Regan. They smiled at each other, and Regan took Goneril's hand in greeting. Lear's vision swam red, and the fury from it all started a drumroll in his head. "You bring your whole group with you everywhere you go, and now they know where you are. They know the routes."

"They're not smart enough for that," Lear scoffed. "I've been here since before the Rising -"

"And it's not like that anymore," Regan interrupted. "They're changing. They're learning. And I know you don't like to admit it, but you're no longer in charge anymore. You shouldn't even have that many men with you; it just attracts attention and it puts their lives in danger."

"I don't want you at my safehouse anymore," Goneril said calmly. "Not unless you cut your men at least in half."

"Then I'll go to Regan's," Lear said immediately, but - the itch clawed at the inside of his skull now, filling him with doubt. His arm burned.

Sure enough, Regan shook her head. "I won't take you unless you drop it down to twenty-five. They're noisy and disruptive and they want too much in return for their protection. I have my walls and my men and that's good enough."

Twenty-five! What was he supposed to do with the rest of his men? Should he just hide in his safehouse and never come out again, letting his girls take the empire he'd built from the ashes and scatter it right back again? What did they want? Did they love him at all?

"I don't see why you need more than five men when you have our protection," Goneril said calmly, and Lear's words left him. Even worse when Regan shrugged and asked why he needed anyone at all, if he'd been around pre-Rising and knew so much better than anyone.

"I don't believe this!" Lear shouted. Fire raced up his arm and set his blood aflame, and the rage bubbled up until he thought he'd fly to pieces. "My own daughters! Turning against me after everything I've done for you - how dare you! I'll make you pay for it. I don't know what I'll do, but I know that once I think of it you'll regret ever crossing me! I'll tear you to pieces! I'll bite your throats out, I'll rip out your insides and swallow them whole -"

For the first time, Regan's calm broke. "Dad," she said sharply. "Were you bitten?" She looked behind him to the others. "Was he bitten?"

"There was an altercation," one of the men said quickly. "But we killed it before it could bite anyone, I swear -"

"I was not bitten!" Lear screamed. "If I'm acting like it, it's just because the shame of having daughters like you is driving me crazy! I won't stay here with you any longer!" Thunder crashed overhead, rattling the windows. Thunder, yes, and rain - rain would wash him clean, get rid of the strange bugs skittering up his spine. Rain kept them away, too; none of them wanted to venture out where they'd get wet and rot even faster.

They didn't stop him, though a handful of his men followed. "Please don't," begged Gloucester, as Lear pulled open the door. "It's storming outside, and that might keep them away but that doesn't mean you're safe. Please come back inside, I promise you'll be treated well."

"No!" Lear shook off his hand and stepped out into the storm. "I'm leaving! Tell them I'll come back when they invite me, and not a second sooner!" The wind and rain lashed across his face, drawing a gasp from him, but the itch in his arm subsided, the horrible crawling in his blood receding back. Yes. Yes, this is what he needed. Good, clean rain and no more traitor daughters.

"I'll look after him," said one of his men in a low voice, but Lear ignored him and marched out into the howling gale.

* * *

SPACE

The latest sweep came up empty of life signs and recent traffic, and Admiral Gloucester swore under his breath. The distress signal sent out from Lear's pod had come from somewhere in this sector, but the pod had drifted far enough from the last known point that Gloucester's instruments couldn't find it. He'd done as even a sweep as he could, but only so much could be done in a ship like this.

If he had his battleship, the long-range sensors would pick up on the pod's electronic signature, maybe even the life signs inside, but no, Gloucester did not have his battleship, not anymore. He'd barely been able to sneak into the hangar and steal his personal shuttle after Lear's daughters took over command of his vessel. Humiliating, but he could get it back eventually. More importantly, he had to find Lear. The supreme commander of the star system did not deserve to die floating in an escape pod long run out of power, and worse, who would lead them if he did? Gloucester certainly didn't have it in him to rule the entire system.

Although, much longer and he might not have a choice; the pod's oxygen wouldn't last more than an hour. The heating would fail soon after, but at least the corpse inside wouldn't care about that.

(Stop that, Gloucester told himself firmly, keying in the sequence for another sweep.)

He let the instruments run, pushing fingers through his thinning hair. The whole system in an uproar, half the planetary fleets turning on each other; and Lear's own split in two thanks to the actions of his daughters, two aligned against the third - for now. It would be amazing if anyone had ships at all after this.

The sensors trilled, and Gloucester sat up, fumbling for the controls. So long since he piloted a ship on his own, and so many things had changed since then - but at last he found the proper screen and scanned the information that scrolled across it. A small pod, indeterminate life signs, thrusters spent and life support systems failing.

Gloucester held his breath, laying the course into the computer and watching the stars shift around him as this shuttle turned. He leapt up and checked the sleeping quarters, where he'd laid out all the extra bedding and the craft's medical supplies just in case.

He ran another scan upon returning to the cockpit, and the computer matched the pod's identifier as matching those from Gloucester's battleship. The question now was where to send Lear when he found him; they couldn't all fly around in the shuttle forever. Gloucester pulled up the star maps, running them through his unfortunately spotty memory for which systems had turned to which side in the last few weeks of battles.

The closest, if Gloucester remembered right, was the small independent outpost of Dover, reportedly being used as a base of operations for Lear's youngest daughter Cordelia as she and her husband readied an attack on Goneril and Regan's territories. Gloucester could easily send Lear there to recover, then take his own shuttle's pod and try to find his son. Edmund would know what to do.

The shuttle only had one interstellar jump left, and if Dover turned out to be a dead end then that meant Gloucester had doomed Lear, but what else could he do?

At last he caught up with the pod, and rather than trust the docking process to his own lacking hand-eye coordination, Gloucester told the computer to automate the retrieval and ran for the docking bay. Waiting for the pressure to equalize once the airlock closed felt like the longest minute of his life, but at last Gloucester opened the inner door and made a beeline for the pod.

The pod's hinges hissed and the door swung open; two strangers and Lear's personalized robotic assistant staggered out, dragging the prone body of the commander. Lear stared at the ceiling and raved as they laid him down.

"Is he all right?" Gloucester asked as the android, the only one of them strong enough to haul the commander's unconscious body, lifted Lear into its arms and rose to its feet.

The android ignored him. "Hey, here's a riddle," it said to the prone man in its arms. "Is a crazy man a gentleman or an ordinary man?"

Gloucester slapped a hand to his forehead. The F-zero-zero-L models always did have faulty personality modules, and Lear refused to wipe his and start over, leaving it with what amounted to a very eccentric persona.

"A king," said Lear, his head lolling back and eyes wide.

"Not a king," corrected the android. "An ordinary man who made his son a gentleman before him, and went mad from jealousy."

"Take him in and lay him down on the bed," Gloucester interrupted, before the android went off on a tangent and Lear died from neglect.

Everything went as planned. Gloucester made sure that Lear was settled, strapped to the bed and sedated, then he grabbed a suit and some supplies and headed for his own pod.

"He's lost his mind," said the commander's man as Gloucester stepped into his suit and checked the fastenings. "I don't know if it's the betrayal or all the time in space, but I don't know if we'll get him back."

"We'll have to try," Gloucester said. "I've already programmed the computer with the coordinates for Dover. Go there, find Cordelia, and tell her everything. Maybe she can send a fleet fast enough to stop this before it goes too far. I'm going to send a message to Edmund's channel from the pod and have him pick me up. Once he finds me, I'll contact you again."

"Thank you," the man said, helping Gloucester with the seal on his helmet. "Good luck."

Once in his pod, Gloucester activated the launch sequence, sent his message to Edmund, then closed his eyes and tried to sleep. After running himself to exhaustion for the past few days, it didn't take long.

He woke when the pod scraped against the deck of a ship and the air around him hissed. The chronometer said he'd been floating for about eight hours, well enough time for Edmund to catch his signal and send out a fast ship to catch him. Good! Gloucester only hoped he'd given enough information for his son to start planning to join with Cordelia while searching for him.

The door opened and light flooded in; Gloucester blinked rapidly as hands pulled him free and removed his helmet. "Edmund -" he said, but then a foot slammed into the backs of his knees and he collapsed with a thud on the deck, kneecaps striking the metal and sending pain shooting through his legs. "What is going on?"

"We have him," said a man into his helmet mic. "Bringing him in now."

"Bringing me where?" Gloucester demanded, but then he froze. The men who grabbed him and dragged him through the corridors wore his uniform, but with armbands drawn up over their elbows to cover his insignia, bearing instead the mark of Cornwall. Cornwall, whose forces, allied with his wife's, had taken Gloucester's battleship and were planning to wage war on their own people. "I - where's Edmund?" Gloucester asked. "I sent him a message - where is he? Have you hurt him?"

"The message was intercepted," said the man gripping Gloucester's bicep. "He's not here."

Intercepted? But he'd sent it on a private channel, encrypted; no one but Edmund should have been able to receive it, let alone read it. But Gloucester had no time to think about lies and implications before they reached their destination; the briefing room, set with the large table where Gloucester and his lieutenants would sit to discuss strategy.

A man sat at the head, in Gloucester's seat: Cornwall. He leaned back and steepled his fingers, fixing Gloucester with a small, thin smile; behind him stood his wife, tall and powerful in her military greys, her hands resting on his shoulders. "So this is the traitor," Cornwall said idly. "Cuff him."

"Traitor?" Gloucester yelped, gasping in shock when they wrenched his arms behind and slapped restraints on his wrists. One shoulder protested, dragged back too far, and he did his best to ignore the stabbing pain. "I'm not a traitor! I'm not the one who forced the commander into a life pod with limited power and set him adrift in space!"

"He got into that pod himself," Regan reminded him, and all right, yes, Gloucester had been there and tried to stop him, but who had driven him to insanity in the first place? "Now tell us. Who have you been communicating with? And where did you send the king?"

Gloucester tried. He did. He set his teeth and determined not to answer their questions, not a single one, but then they tortured him - or Regan did, slow and sweet with a sugar smile, pulling out his hair with her bare hands and digging her nails hard into his skin. "He's in Dover," Gloucester spat finally, heaving breaths, and had the dubious pleasure of watching them exchange worried glances. "Hopefully he's there now. And then Cordelia and her battalion will come and crush you, which is no less than you deserve! You turned him out into space when you knew what would happen! You deserve whatever vengeance you get!"

"A true statement, that, even if none came before," Cornwall said, rising. He drew a small, wicked-looking metal device from his belt and flipped it over in his hands. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, rhetorically of course. Gloucester didn't answer; if he kept his mouth shut, then maybe he would appear brave and stalwart instead of terrified past the edge of speech. "It's an ocular deracinator, not that I expect an idiot like you to know what that means. I had it designed myself."

He pressed a button on the handle, and spikes shot out from the opposite end, claws digging into the empty air before withdrawing. "As it turns out, my wife has a thing for watching filthy traitors like you get what's coming to them. I figure, if I'm going to be punishing fools and turncoats, we might as well get something out of it."

Regan's teeth glinted sharp and wicked, a trick of the light, probably, but Gloucester shuddered. "I want to see his face. Do it now, before he understands. I love the moment of realization."

"Anything for you," Cornwall said, striding forward, and he pushed Gloucester's chair back and braced himself with one foot against the arm. Fear scrabbled at the base of Gloucester's throat - his arms twinged with pain, pinned behind him and trapped between his back and the chair at an off angle - and he tried to call out to the guards at the door but no one moved. Then Cornwall brought his arm down over Gloucester's eye socket -

Pain exploded through Gloucester's skull, ripping through him like fire through a ship's corridors after a core explosion. He didn't even register what happened in the overload until he forced open his left eye and saw the bloodied white sphere impaled on the device's claws.

"To deracinate means to tear out by the roots," Cornwall added helpfully. "Though I assume you've got the gist by now."

"Don't stop now," Regan said, sidling up to her husband and wrapping her arms around his waist, nuzzling at his neck. "The other one will feel lonely if you leave it there."

Blackness rolled over Gloucester in waves as agony beat at him from all sides. One of the guards at the door darted forward, pulling his service pistol - a shot fired and Cornwall yelped - Regan grabbed her husband's ceremonial sword and ran the guard through - then Cornwall came back with the device again, face contorted with pain and fury -

More fire. The claws dug into the skin around his eye and scraped against the edges of the socket, the sound of metal on bone running straight through to his brain. Gloucester screamed, and finally, mercifully, everything disappeared.

* * *

HIGH SCHOOL

Edgar bounced on his toes at half-court, the pebbly surface of the basketball comforting and solid beneath his fingers as he lined up the shot. He let the ball go, and it hit the backboard and knocked back and forth between either side of the rim before finally bouncing away without going through the net. He blew out an annoyed breath and jogged after the ball. He'd never miss a shot like that normally, but - well, this hadn't exactly been a normal week, had it.

First Dad found a note in Edgar's desk that said he was planning a school shooting, and only his brother warning him that the cops were looking for him let Edgar get away and hide out until it blew over. Luckily Edmund said he'd deal with it, and Edgar trusted him, but he didn't exactly like living in the church basement and hiding whenever anyone came in. At least the youth group had a downstairs court or Edgar probably would've gone crazy.

And it hadn't ended there, either, because the principal's crazy middle daughter's boyfriend attacked Dad in the staff room yesterday, actually stabbing him in the eyes. Who _stabbed_ someone in the _eyes_? What century were they in? Edgar heard about it from TV, of all places, when he'd gone out to a diner to grab dinner and seen the report on the evening news. Edgar wore the clothes Edmund let him borrow and snuck into the hospital to see his father, and Dad had been hopped up on morphine or who knew what and didn't recognize Edgar but seemed to appreciate the company.

Edgar took another shot, and this one didn't make the basket either. This time he didn't bother chasing the ball, letting it skitter away across the floor with the sharp slap of rubber against linoleum. Everybody at his school had gone completely nuts; Principal Lear had expelled his youngest daughter, then later fought with his other two and stormed out in the middle of the afternoon and not come back. After that Edgar was suspended and had to run, and then whole thing where Regan's boyfriend got himself expelled and sent to juvie.

Did something get put in the cafeteria food to make everybody so crazy?

Edgar scuffed his foot across the floor until his sneaker squeaked. Maybe he'd go see Dad again. He'd believed whoever started the shooting rumour, which didn't make Edgar feel too good, but after seeing him alone in the hospital like that, with all the IVs and bandages and everything and his skin all pale and waxy, Edgar couldn't really stay mad.

He grabbed his hoodie and jammed a hat down over his eyes, then headed downtown to the hospital. Dad was in the recovery ward now, at least, after all his surgeries, and while nobody knew if he'd ever be able to see again, at least that was better than nothing. Nobody stopped Edgar as he slipped through the halls, and maybe he could finally talk to Dad about the shooting and convince him that somebody must have planted the note. Probably one of the guys who wanted Edgar's spot on the team; maybe even Regan's crazy boyfriend, he'd never liked Edgar for some reason.

Edgar ducked around the corner into Dad's hospital room, then stopped with a frown at the site of someone else by the bed. "Hey," he said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too recognizable. "Can I help you?"

The kid straightened up fast, and Edgar recognized him as a freshman from school but couldn't remember where he'd seen him. "Oh hey, hi, I was just checking on Mr. Gloucester for Edmund. He was busy tonight but he wanted me to make sure his dad was okay."

"Oh," Edgar said, letting his shoulders fall. "You sound like a really good friend."

"Yeah, I guess," the kid said, standing up. "I should probably get back to him."

He knocked against Edgar in his hurry to leave, and their phones clattered to the floor. "Here, let me get that," Edgar said, picking them both up and pocketing his own before handing the kid's back to him. The guy muttered a hurried 'thanks' and slipped out, and Edgar forgot all about him as he headed back to Dad's bed.

"Dad, you awake?" Edgar asked, but then his phone buzzed in his pocket and he drew it out to check the series of messages as they popped up on his screen. The name came up as GINNY LEAR, who Edgar didn't remember having in his phone, but obviously he'd put her in there sometime.

_can you tell Edmund to call me back he's not answering my texts_

_if he's hooking up with my sister I swear to god I'm going to kill them both_

_bitch has been single what like a whole day and already moving in on my action_

_seriously I need him to get rid of my boyfriend because I can't do it by myself and he promised_

_tell him to make another shooting note or fake a suicide I don't care just something_

Edgar almost dropped his phone, but then he took a closer look and it wasn't his phone at all. He must've grabbed the wrong one when he bumped into the kid from earlier - and now he knew where he'd seen him. The kid hung around Principal Lear's oldest daughter, and everyone at school got the memo that she'd never date him except he never seemed to.

He read the texts again, again, again, and a roaring started up in Edgar's ears. He felt like he did the day of a big game, when he stepped out onto the court and the crowd cheered his name, only instead of pride and happiness filling his chest until he thought he'd float up to the ceiling, now it was something deeper, darker. Edgar nearly threw the phone across the room, but he needed the messages if he was going to prove all this.

"You sleep, Dad," Edgar said, gritting his teeth and curling his hands into fists until his nails bit into the skin. "I'll fix this."

He stormed out of the hospital and didn't bother pulling up his hood or tugging down his hat. If they recognized him, let them; Edmund had finally helped him prove his innocence after all.

* * *

DRAGONS

The scout landed with a fluttering of wingbeats and a dig of talons into the soft earth, shaking off the rain; Cordelia shaded her eyes against the sun and ran to meet him, stepping out from under the protection of Temperance's wing. "Well?" she demanded, ducking as the dragon folded its wings in and lowered itself to all four limbs. "Did you see him?"

"Not yet, my lady general," said his rider, sliding to the ground with one hand on the harness. "But there is much ground to cover, and he is but one man -"

"One man and his dragon, and you will find them!" Cordelia said, nearly snapping, and behind her Temperance bent her head and nosed Cordelia between the shoulders. She sighed and reached a hand back to stroke her dragon's muzzle, running her palm over the smooth, cool scales. "He is old and has lost his mind; he cannot wander England forever on his own and not come to grief."

If only he could travel by air, but the royal dragon had long lost his ability to fly for more than a few exhausted wingbeats, never mind with a passenger. Likely they wandered the moors together, frightened and alone, prey to any feral beasts who might look upon an infirm dragon as easy prey, and his human companion as little more than something to pick the meat from their teeth.

"I'm trying," protested the scout dragon, turning his slit-pupiled topaz eyes toward Cordelia, and she bit back her impatience. His breed could spot a rabbit from the clouds, or so said the scholars; how hard could it be to find a man and his aging beast? "But all this rain makes it difficult to make out anything."

"We'll keep looking," the rider promised, and Cordelia pressed her lips together. "I just need to give Aquila a rest and we'll be right back at it."

Cordelia nodded, and as they headed for the feeding grounds she turned back to Temperance and led her head rest against her dragon's side. "I worry for him," she said, the words bursting with inadequacy. "My sisters do not love him and have done him grievous wrong besides. I should not have left him."

"He banished you," Temperance pointed out, lifting her wing again to shield Cordelia from the drizzle. "You could not have swayed him."

"I could have tried," Cordelia said, shaking her head. "I need not have fled to France. I could have taken refuge somewhere close and aided him when first my wicked sisters made their intentions plain. I could have -"

Temperance blew a huff of breath through her nostrils, and the wave of heated air nearly knocked Cordelia sideways. "I won't have you talking thus," she said, scraping her talons in the moss. "You are helping him now; there is no reward from arguing with the past."

"True," Cordelia said, and she turned to look out over the cliffs, hazy with mist and rain. Far away her sisters and their armies mobilized, but the French dragons would meet them. They would have a battle unlike any fought on English soil, but she would win, and take the kingdom back from her pernicious sisters.

The French dragons flitted back and forth through the air, practicing manoeuvres; their banners wet and heavy, flapping in the wind and rain. Cordelia released her breath in a long exhale. She would restore the kingdom to her father, and these cursed rains would stop.

"Soon," Temperance promised, pulling her lips back in a fearsome snarl, and Cordelia raised her head and smiled in return.

* * *

AGE OF SAIL

They pulled Father from the choppy waves in the hours before the battle. Cordelia leaned over the side, clinging to the slippery wood as the rain pelted her face and mingled with the cold salt spray. Her clothes stuck to her, hair whipping loose from her braid and stinging her eyes, and she fixed her gaze on the longboat as the men hooked the ropes and hauled it aboard.

"He's alive," one of the men called up, and Cordelia's heart stuck in her throat.

"Step back, we can't bring him over with you in the way," barked another, and Cordelia hastened aside. She clutched her skirts, twisting her fingers in the sodden fabric as they brought Father and his man, shivering, onto the deck.

Father's skin was ashen, his beard and hair matted through with salt. Cordelia followed as the men carried him down to the cabin, staggering under his weight. His man tried to follow, but the ship's surgeon spoke sharply with him and sent him away with a blanket and a glass of brandy to warm up and stay out of the way until called for. Even Cordelia he ordered aside, and she remained outside the door as the ship pitched and yawed, while above the men shouted and the cannons rolled across the decks. The battle had begun.

At last the surgeon opened the door. "He'll live," he said brusquely, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Swallowed a fair bit of seawater, and he's dehydrated and could do with a good rest and more solid food than we've got aboard, but he'll pull through. You may see him now."

Cordelia pushed inside the cabin and knelt down on the bed. Father's eyes lolled in his head, but when Cordelia gripped his hand they fixed on her. Father burst into heaving sobs, and Cordelia sat beside him on the hard, narrow cot and pulled him into her arms.

She held him and sang to him as the fever worked through him and the sweat stood out on his forehead. She held him while above the guns rang out and the other ships answered back in a roar of cannon and rifle fire.

"It'll be all right," Cordelia promised, the words more a mantra than truth, and to convince whom she could no longer discern. "We will win. God is on our side, Father. He will turn the tide."

"No," Father murmured, lips wet with foam. "No, no, I cannot be forgiven for what I've done to you, my daughter. I must be punished and God will see it done."

"God would not see my death just to punish you," Cordelia said sharply. "I am sure of it, and my husband's men are accomplished sailors and fighters both. We will win, I promise you."

Just then the sky above them split in two with a _crack_ that shook the deck, knocking the pitcher of water to the floor, where it clattered against the leg of the desk and the liquid soaked into the wood. The mast, Cordelia realized, as the ship suddenly veered, at the mercy of the waves. They'd brought down the mast. Moments later came another volley of cannons; the ship shuddered again, and the men cried out in unison: "'ware boarders!"

The clash of steel as they drew their swords; cries as the men from the opposing ships stormed the decks and ran them through. All too soon Cordelia caught the clatter of swords striking the deck in unison, and the captain called for the striking of the colours.

Cordelia sat calm and still, holding Father's hand, and did not speak when Goneril's men broke down the door and surrounded her. They would bring word back of her conduct at the time of her arrest, and if nothing else, Cordelia would not give her sisters the satisfaction.

* * *

NOIR

The wind stung colder than my ex-wife on a grey day in January as we stepped out of the car and headed for the old Lear house. The guy who'd made the call ran up the front walk to meet us, clutching his hat down over his head. "It's like a horror-show in there," he babbled. "I ain't never seen so many bodies in one place before, and so much blood! They'll have to rip out the carpets and start again!"

I didn't ask him how many bodies he'd seen before, or what he considered an acceptable threshold for the number of murder victims before he decided it was too much. "Do you know what happened?" I asked him instead, taking a drag of my cigarette and watching the smoke get torn away.

"No sir, I can't make heads of tails of it, 'cept that they all went plumb crazy and killed themselves. I can't imagine what would make 'em do it, it's awful."

"I'll take it from here," I said, brushing him off. "You may as well sit in the cab, meter's running so he'll keep the engine hot for you."

The little guy sprinted off toward the taxi, and I pushed open the door of the house.

Now, I've been doing this job a long time, and I've seen some pretty crazy things. I once saw a girl with her hands and tongue cut off so she couldn't tell anyone who did it to her; I saw two kids, not more than thirty years between the two of them, kill themselves three days after meeting each other; I even worked a case where a missing girl was hidden inside a statue until the sedatives wore off and she busted her way through. But I tell you, this was one of the weirdest things I'd ever come across.

One girl collapsed on the ground, eyes bloodshot and foam around her mouth, easy enough. Her face had gone blue, and she had scratches on her throat where she'd clawed for air. Poison, probably from the overturned glass on the table. Who'd done it I had no idea, but I doubted she'd be too offended.

Another girl lay sprawled on the sofa, head on the arm like someone placed her there, a wide pool of blood soaking the fabric of her dress over her stomach. Suicide, most likely; she had blood on her hands but no skin under the fingernails and no sign of struggle; maybe she saw the chaos and couldn't take it. She was pretty, or would've been; the other one you couldn't tell with her face all puffed up like that, but this one would've been a looker in her day. Shame, funny how you almost never saw an ugly woman all cut up like that.

In the hallway was an old man, and the funny thing was, he'd had his eyes ripped out but that wasn't what killed him; the wounds were old and hastily bandaged, not healing but not new either. Near as I could tell he'd copped it from a heart attack, which, given what I'd walked in on, I couldn't really blame him for.

The last body was a young guy, handsome in that dark and brooding kind of way, and he had a gut wound too but a nasty one, straight across but jagged. Someone had stuck him and dragged the knife through whatever organs he could hit. Not the kinda thing you give yourself if you're looking for a quick way out. He had bruises on his jaw and torn-up skin on his knuckles, too, and since none of the girls nor the old man had matching marks, that meant a problem for me. Whoever did this wasn't in the room, so I couldn't be like genius out there and wrap it up neat as a crazy quadruple murder-suicide.

I bent to check the guy for ID when he groaned, and I nearly jumped right outta my skin. How a guy with a wound like that survived more than a few minutes I'll never know, but he had. He wouldn't last much longer, but at least maybe I could get a few answers out of him. I knelt down and bent my ear close to his mouth, and his breath rattled in his chest but he managed to choke out a few words.

"Basement," he said, and I'm not afraid to tell you, I nearly packed up and left right there. "I - two more. Old man and his daughter. I - sent someone - if you hurry -"

And, well, the guy was gonna be dead in a few minutes and the wail of the sirens out the window let me know help was on its way, so I jumped up and headed for the stairs. In my job I got used to seeing a lot of corpses, but I'd never made it there in time to save anyone. Maybe just this once I'd get there first. Maybe just this once I wouldn't be the only one breathing when the ambulance showed up.

My footsteps echoed against the walls as I pounded down the rickety stairs, and me and God weren't exactly buddies but this time I tossed a few words skyward. Who knows, maybe all those years of not asking the big guy for anything meant that I had a nice juicy favour saved up.

My hand slapped at the wall when I hit the bottom, but the lights were the old-fashioned kind, the chain swinging from a hanging lamp in the ceiling. I flailed around in the darkness, found the chain, and pulled hard, squinting against the sudden light as the shadows danced crazily on the walls -

* * *

TAROT

_You lay the cards on the table, facedown: a spread of seven, two rows of two with one row of three between. A spread to learn the story of a child: in this case, a girl called Cordelia._

_The first card signifies what the child came into life to learn. You turn it over: the Hanged Man. The card speaks of sacrifice and humility, of faith and trust and devotion; the child will learn selflessness and submission, or perhaps how to inspire them in others. And yet you stare for several minutes at the image, unsettled. The Hanged Man also speaks of letting go, of a final crossroads and the point of no return. Be wary, it seems to say; complacence is the enemy._

_The second card reveals the child's whereabouts. It is the Eight of Swords, a woman blindfolded and bound, surrounded by weapons driven into the ground - surrounded by the means to free herself but unable to manage. Imprisonment, disloyalty, fear. The child is not safe, and neither can she escape._

_You turn the third card, which represents where the child most shines, to see the rainbow array of the Ten of Cups. Family, contentment, sharing; the child is meant to help others, to draw them together and let them find their truest selves. Her calling is truth and honesty and love in its purest form. It sits incongruously below its darker siblings._

_The fourth card - what you most need to know about the child - is the Chariot, reversed. The chariot speaks of battle and danger and struggle; conviction against reality, righteousness versus justice. She has fought, this child, and her strength of character might have seen her through, but reversed, ah. Reversed. She has gambled, she has warred, and she has lost. The charioteer fights alone; the child is in danger. _

_Your hands tremble as you turn the fifth, which tells you where the child is headed: the Tower. A card of change, the Tower speaks of cataclysmic upheaval, following signs that have long been ignored. The child's life has been uprooted, everything she knew tossed into the fire, and it is not yet finished._

_The sixth card tells you what will impact the child most in the future. Face up, you see the Six of Wands, the triumphant warrior returned from battle with the laurel wreath - but his head points toward the bottom of the table. The card is reversed; the warrior, defeated. The child's life reeks of betrayal and distrust; there will be no victory for her._

_The final card marks what the child will achieve. You place it on the table and there it is, grim and amused all at once: Death. It steals your breath and volition all in one; you sit back as the reading's painful truth lies clear._

_You could argue the symbolic meaning, change and new beginnings and windows opening where doors have closed, but the word bores through your skull. Death, death, death. Cordelia is bound for betrayal and the grave, and no rescue will come in time._

_Except you hold the cards; you draw them, place them, read them, wrest meaning from their silent, painted faces. Their power lies in telling but yours in interpretation, in choosing._

_The cards promise death for this young woman, uncompromising and unfair, but they are only cards. Words are only words, and stories but turns of fancy. You place two fingers on the final card, one forefinger on the grinning skull and thumb on its empty ribs, and slowly, deliberately, turn it top to bottom:_

_Death, reversed._

_You smile, and like the butterfly and the hurricane, the universe shifts._

* * *

FIXIT ENDING

Lear gasped awake in the darkness, thinking he still heard the dripping of the water on the prison walls, the scurry of rats, still felt the ropes that bound his hands and feet, but no, no, only silence, calm and not sepulchral. A cool hand brushed his forehead, smoothed the wrinkles in his brow; a pair of lips touched him between the eyes, soft and familiar.

"Cordelia!" Lear did his best to sit, but the world tilted beneath him and Cordelia pressed him back down with a hand on his chest. "Cordelia I - you were dead, you were hanged, I - I carried you out in my arms -"

"No, Father," Cordelia said gently, her voice soft as a spring breeze. "You must have dreamt it. I am not hanged. My lord France's men have defeated the armies of Albany and Cornwall; my sisters are removed until they should learn their wrongs; and Albany and Edgar both stand at your side, ready to support you as ruler once more. The kingdom is yours again."

Lear wept, and found he had no more shame in weeping. Cordelia touched the hem of her skirts to his cheeks, drying the tears he no longer thought traitor, and at last she placed a hand behind his back and aided him as he sat.

"How is the weather?" Lear asked her, leaning his head against her shoulder. "I feel I have not seen the sun for many days - nay, a lifetime. It has been naught but rain and misery these few years."

"You may see for yourself," Cordelia said, slipping an arm around Lear's waist, and slowly, bones creaking and muscles protesting, he rose to his feet. She led him to the window, and Lear pressed his fingertips to the stone sill and looked out into the yard beyond.

The sunrise touched the edges of the the palace walls, not with bloody red smears but with streams of gold, glittering on the black metal and grey stone and bringing them to life. A bird twittered in the trees, and the clouds floated soft and pink in the ever-lightening sky.

"Just a dream, Father," Cordelia reminded him, and kissed his cheek.


End file.
